Articles & Essays

Musings on Pipes, Tobacco and Culture

Reflections in Smoke

This was originally posted
to the alt.smokers.pipes newsgroup. Joel Farr, then editor of
the now out of print Pipe Friendly Magazine, picked it up,
and published it.
This was my first pipe related article in print. Thanks, Joel!
Pipe Friendly is gone, but I'm still here, so I present it
just 'cause
it's my site, and I want to. -glp

Tonight, for old time's sake,
I picked up a pouch of Borkum Riff. This was the first tobacco
I ever smoked, and something about seeing it on the supermarket shelves
got the best of me. It must be 18 years since I've smoked it,
and probably close to that many since I thought about it. But
there it was, singing to me with a siren's voice, calling me
to rekindle some old memories. It worked.

When I was in high school,
it was still permissible for teachers to smoke in their offices
(it wasn't even that long ago). One of my favorite science teachers
routinely and contentedly puffed away on a pipe full of some flavour of Borkum
Riff between classes. His fragrant smoke perfumed the air, and
some combination of curiosity, admiration for my teacher, and my own peculiar tendency
to connect myself somehow to the rituals of the ancient ones (anyone over 50),
led me to a single, inevitable conclusion; I would become a pipe smoker.

The process of procuring my
first pipe, a Medico full bent sandblast (I had no idea it was
sandblasted - I just knew it cost less than the smooth ones)
was something of a rite of passage. The experience didn't exactly
mark my entry into the mysteries of manhood, but it tested my
mettle nearly as much as buying that first package of condoms.
There it was, locked safely away in a little glass cabinet. Drat.
I'd have to ask for it. I'd have to TALK to someone. What would
I tell them? It's for my dad. No. My uncle.

The details beyond this become
a bit fuzzy. That's the way rites of passage are, or, at least,
the way they should be. If you remember them in too much detail,
the mystery is lost. Passage is not a continuum; it is a step.
You remember what happens before, you remember the ordeal being
over, and you recall, or just know, that something happened in
between. I entered the peristyle a petitioner and somehow emerged
from the other side an initiate, armed with my new Medico and
a pouch of Borkum Riff. If this tobacco was good enough for Mr.
Havel, it would be good enough for me.

Though I have fond memories
of smoking that pipe in those neophyte days, I freely admit,
very few of them were a result of a fine smoke. I was an odd
kid - most odd adults start out as odd kids, so this is hardly
surprising. I drove an old Austin Healy. I had a strange penchant
for wearing tweed jackets and driving caps. And, I smoked a pipe.
I did enjoy the affectations... (Perhaps, it is presumptuous
to say that I "smoked" a pipe. I did try, but from
where I sit today, it's fairly clear I never fully succeeded.)

I never got much flavor out
of that pipe. I smoked a host of the tobaccos that I could get
at the drugstore, thinking something with more aroma would also
taste more like, well, something - anything at all. All I got
was hot air, and the occasional stinging feeling I would later
learn was something called "tongue bite." I finally
was taken under the wing of a knowledgeable tobacconist, but
that's another story for another day. This story is about the
pouch of Borkum Riff I picked up at the supermarket tonight.
Remember?

As supermarket tobaccos go,
it really isn't too bad. I don't have much to compare it to these
days, as I haven't smoked anything but "real" tobaccos
for the past 18 years. It's not devoid of taste, as I thought
it to be in earlier years. Perhaps I've learned a bit about smoking
a pipe after all. But, shall I compare thee to a bowl of Balkan
Sobranie? No chance! And on and on I puff...

Then it hit, suddenly, without
warning. The sense of smell is the most intense trigger of memories
we have. One whiff of that aroma, one gaze into the hypnotic
dance of the sinewy smoke, and I was instantly transported back
to high school. As I puffed away, I recalled those days in the
science lab, Mr. Havel's pipe smoke quietly creeping in, hinting
at the mysteries I would someday know. I remembered Doonsbury,
my old Austin Healy. I remembered teachers I hadn't thought about
in years, including a few that influenced my life more than I
could ever know at the time, and I thanked them silently. I thought
about debates and drama, and the innocence of a young life.

Mostly, though, I remembered
Julie, my first true love, who tolerated my odd behaviors beyond
the limits of most high school girls, and even thought my pipe
smoking was kind of cute. And, those lovely foggy days, when
we'd lower Doonsbury's "hood," take off the side curtains
and drive the hills to her house, bundled up in coat, cap and
muffler, enjoying the moistness of the air as it mingled with
the aromas of the pipe and that wonderful smell of leather and
mildew that only an English roadster can have. I can still tune
a pair of SU carburetors in my sleep, and know the valve clearances
of that engine as though they were tattooed on the back of my
hand. I can still smell Julie's strawberry shampoo, hear her
sweet laughter at my foolish jokes, and feel the warmth of her
hand in my own.

Many loves, many schools, many
cars and many tobaccos have gone the way of Julie and Borkum
Riff. How wonderful it is that this little pouch of joyful memories
was right there at the supermarket for the small price of $3.49.
Education, experience and a few years have brought many new things
into my life, and a fine life it is, but nothing can ever replace
the wondrous simplicity of youth, even though we are often too
naive to realize it until it comes around again in clouds of
smoky reflection.